Of Place

The landscape is stunning. It has a beauty that hits you, A sharp, slicing beauty, Ringing like a sword slid from it's sheath. Beauty that only its beholder can feel, A sting like a knife twisted through a sapling, Metallic on green, Flowing. The vibe of it, Thrilling, Vast and almost incomprehensible. Mountains on all sides, Dashed in more colours than a dozen rainbows. Striped rock sediments ebb and rise from edge to edge of this world. The ground; Earth, Just sand, rubble and shingle, Like British beaches on a cold morning, Only its hot, So hot, And bathed in a sunlight so bright, It seems impossible for darkness to ever exist. Only cacti tower tall enough to cast shadow here; A desert superimposed onto mountainous climbs. The air is so thin it barely lines your lungs, Nothing but dust, Leaving a gasping, Choking, So deep that it can't be swallowed. The intensity of this desolate, beautiful land of ancients is so strong, The world cannot know it, And it cannot acknowledge the world. This place is foreign, Lifetimes away from where I belong. I trespass on soil that spirits laid claim to long ago. Yet, I feel more alive than I ever have in my own skin, In this aching, Gloriously hostile, Perfectly adapted world, I am my own spirit, come to live again, Come to haunt this immortal plane, Glimpsing the possibilities, The eternity of it. Mystery. So intriguing, Almost tangible, Singing through the air, As if the dusty haze had a voice of its own, Casting to the hallowed winds, Swept up in time, Encapsulated here, A haven worthy of deity, Presided by spirits And witnessed by me. Unfathomable.